


home is just another word for you

by luninosity



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Coffee Shops, Falling In Love, Feelings, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 03:55:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3753547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky’s lips taste like cinnamon, when he licks them. Steve Rogers is smiling at him, fifteen minutes before closing, and there’s no one else in the café. The rain’s pounding down and Bucky’s heart’s pounding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	home is just another word for you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boopboop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boopboop/gifts).



> Written for boopboop, for [this photoset on tumblr](http://luninosity.tumblr.com/post/115880896389/boopboopbi-it-was-raining-anyways-and-with-a), with thanks to [thelittlestpurplecat](http://thelittlestpurplecat.tumblr.com/) for making it in the first place!
> 
> Title from Billy Joel's "You're My Home."

The rain’s pounding down like heartbeats, wild and steady at once: the way Bucky always feels around Steve, the way that’s like being securely anchored and also free to leap or laugh or come apart and be caught. The rain’s pounding down and Steve’s smiling, battered leather jacket dotted with wet, eyelashes sprinkled with sinful diamonds. The rain’s pounding down and Bucky’s heart’s pounding.  
                          
He puts down the cup he’s forgotten to take a sip from. A cinnamon-praline white-chocolate latte. Experimenting with flavors. He does that. On his shifts. Here in the café where he’s found a job and the stumbling beginnings of a new start far away from deserts and land-mines and shrapnel dreams. Not much, maybe, but.  
  
His lips taste like cinnamon, when he licks them.  
  
Steve Rogers is smiling at him, fifteen minutes before closing, and there’s no one else in the café.  
  
The rain billows outside, shrouding the world: silken sheets, cool and dim and pale, light seen through waterfalls and incongruous espresso heat.  
  
Steve Rogers has been coming to this café every day for the last three weeks. Bucky Barnes has talked to Steve Rogers more than he’s talked to anyone since the shrapnel. Bucky’s also not-talked to Steve Rogers, just leaning on the counter, lingering, letting the quiet spread out. Steve understands about quiet. Steve’s eyes get a little sad sometimes, and he walks like a man who’s been in the military himself; Bucky knows he was a captain, some classified outfit he can’t elaborate on much.  
  
Sometimes Steve likes to draw. Sometimes Bucky likes to watch Steve draw. Bucky likes all the motions and shapes of Steve’s hands: quick, deliberate, pensive, contemplative, pencil-smudged.  
  
One day the previous week Steve’d offered the loan of that leather jacket. It’d been raining then too, raining like tears from a heaven Bucky’s not sure he believes in now, and Steve’d gazed at him with compassionate concern. Bucky’d not taken the jacket but had made Steve one of his own off-menu coffee-inventions, fanciful and chocolate-infused and decorated with foam in the shape of a shield because Steve was trying to protect him. Steve doesn’t particularly like sweet coffee—Bucky’s brain has, in the depths of night, mourned this as a sign of fundamental incompatibility and his own inadequacy about being what Steve might need—but there’re lots of flavor profiles that aren’t as sweet, and Bucky’d thought: bittersweet chocolate, toasted almond, amaretto; and tried hard.  
  
Steve had smiled. At him. Impossible sunshine in the winter storm.  
  
“Bucky,” Steve says, in the present; or maybe only his lips move, shaping Bucky’s name as they gaze at each other in the oasis: _Bucky_.  
  
Bucky swallows—there’s no mistaking the question, the intent, the slow simmering rise of desire like sugar-drift steam—and nods, because he’s not sure he’s got any words when Steve Rogers is looking at him that way, mouth wrapped around his name. His pulse speeds up. In time with the rain.  
  
“That a yes,” Steve asks, barely a question now, a breath, confirmation. “ ’Cause I want, I’ve been wanting to—I mean, you, Buck, God, you’re so—but if you don’t want—”  
  
“That’s a yes!” He barely recognizes his own voice as it flies out. Too eager, so eager: he’s with Steve Rogers for anything and everything. Yes.  
  
“Oh good,” Steve says, reaching back without looking, reaching back to lock the door and flip the sign to _closed_ in one purposeful motion, decision made on Bucky’s given affirmation, “because—”  
  
“Good is not the word you want,” Bucky says, having rediscovered his voice, “the word you want is kiss me _right the fuck now,_ Steve Rogers,” and plunges out from behind the counter to find Steve’s lips meeting his halfway.  
  
Steve’s laughing into the kiss. Steve Rogers laughing while being kissed is the best goddamn thing Bucky’s ever known. Steve manages to inquire, “…so is _fuck_ the word _you_ want?” apparently a smartass even with Bucky’s tongue in his ear, pure sass and muscle and unbelievable proportions under that jacket and impressive willingness to shove Bucky up against a counter and move those hips in mind-blowingly filthy ways. Bucky promptly loses any coherent thoughts he might’ve once had and just wraps his legs around Steve’s waist, arching his back.  
  
“You taste like cinnamon,” Steve murmurs, “I like cinnamon,” and gets a hand under Bucky’s barista apron. Bucky normally secretly kind of loves the ridiculous apron—it’s a symbol, maybe a stupid one, but it’s his new life—but right now wants it and every other interfering stitch of clothing on the floor.  
  
He gets out, “Should’ve made you a cinnamon latte weeks ago—” and gasps as Steve’s hand performs a particularly sneaky move involving the zipper of his jeans. Steve grins—Bucky can feel it against his throat—and retorts, “I like it when it’s on your lips,” and then, “leave the apron _on_.”  
  
“Oh fuck,” Bucky says, a little weakly: shocked and wholly aroused and utterly willing to be exactly as depraved and wanton as Steve wants him, here on the counter with his jeans around his ankles and his tidy work-apron and name-tag still in place.  
  
“Bucky,” Steve says, slowing, resting their heads together, one big hand stroking Bucky’s excited cock with exquisite tenderness. Bucky’s hands—flesh-and-blood _and_ prosthetic, but that difference for maybe the first time doesn’t register in his head: every piece of him wants Steve—clutch Steve’s biceps as Steve rocks their bodies together. The rain shivers and hums, a low-voiced rapid melody.  
  
“ ’s a yes,” Bucky pants, breathless and reckless and _wanting_ and alive with it, “it’s a yes, Steve, _God_ —”  
  
“Bucky,” Steve says again, more ragged this time, and then Steve’s pants’re open too, Steve’s cock thick and hot and gorgeous, girth that makes Bucky’s mouth water with anticipation but that’s going to have to be next time because Steve pushes up the apron and gets that artist’s hand around _both_ their cocks, working them in unison; and that’s it, Bucky’s gone, coming apart at the sight and the sensation: himself perched on the counter, legs spread for Steve to fit between them, Steve’s velvet-iron length rubbing along his own overheated erection, slickness and want and Steve’s hand on them together, and _yes_ —  
  
He comes hard, and long, shuddering through waves of ecstasy. He feels Steve coming too, pulses of wet heat that spurt over their cocks and Bucky’s body and opened jeans and shoved-up apron. He revels in every second of it.  
  
Steve, panting, looking like a man hit over the head with five million rainbow-infused happy endings, gazes down at him with something like awe.  
  
Bucky, having just reacquired his own ability to breathe, leans back to prop elbows on the counter, letting Steve’s gaze travel over his orgasm-splashed stomach and spent cock, and smirks. “Yes for you too, I’m guessin’.”  
  
“So much fuckin’ yes,” Steve says. “So much. Bucky, I—you know I want—I don’t just want—I mean I want to, when I tried to give you my jacket I—”  
  
“Yeah,” Bucky says, “you’re gonna have to give me some time to get used to, um, someone wantin’ to share jackets, but. Yeah. Me too.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah.” He sits up—without using hands for leverage, which he notices Steve noticing with appreciation—and leans in for another kiss. He likes being kissed by Steve. He likes being touched by Steve. He likes the way he feels with Steve, and he likes the way Steve feels: both equally important.  
  
This _is_ him feeling. Hearing the rustle of rain, memorizing the stickiness on skin and clothes, breathing the scents of bodies and sex and dark-roast imported beans. Breathing, with Steve. It’s all real.  
  
“Steve?” he says.  
  
Steve touches his face, brushes a strand of sweat-damp hair away from his eye. “Bucky?”  
  
“So I’m gonna need to wash this apron,” Bucky informs him, “back at your place—” Steve laughs. Joy in his hand, in the caress of fingers to cheek. “—but if you want I can put it back on later and make you that cinnamon latte. With, y’know, extra cream.”


End file.
